An Impromptu Salon
by Cohen's Chicas
Summary: Y'know during La Vie Boheme, an impromptu salon takes place? Well, this fic describes how all the acts, so to speak, came about. A series of PreRent friendship oneshots, with lots of fluffy cuteness. AUTHOR'S NOTE INSIDE!
1. Chapter 1

**(A/N: This is a really, really weird idea. I have absolutely no idea where it came from. Oh well, enjoy anyway!)**

Chapter One: Which She Ain't Never Studied!

"Coll-i-i-ins …" Maureen whined as she flopped down on his bed.

"Maur-ee-ee-n …" he imitated her, laughing.

She shot him a death glare. "I'm bored," she grumbled as she pulled her legs underneath her. "Why don't you ever have any hot, available, straight guys here for me to play with?"

"Because the hot, available, guys would be useless to me if they were straight," Collins pointed out, collapsing into his computer chair.

"Oh. Right."

"Yeah …"

It was just another normal Saturday at the Collins household. Maureen had clambered in from the tree that separated their houses right after she had woken up (at 1 PM, to be precise.) After eating three helpings of his mother's pancakes, she was now taking over Collins' room, munching on his secret stash of potato chips and throwing herself about dramatically.

Collins smiled. As much as she pissed him off, he loved Maureen. Sure, she was self-centered and bitchy and slutty, but she had a soft spot hidden beneath her shapely exterior. Whenever she did something particularly selfish, he always looked back and remembered all the times she had held him through the night, drying the tears over his sexual preference and cracking feeble jokes to make him laugh. They had been best friends ever since first grade, when Collins had asked for a Cheez-Doodle and Maureen had shouted "No!" before throwing the whole bag in his face.

"So …" Maureen diverted his attention back to herself, a tactic she was very good at. "What do you want to do?"

"Well …" Collins got up to look out the window. "This is Hicksville, the land of opportunity. We could try out for the cheerleading squad, or get an internship at the General Store, or interview Mrs. McConnelley about the latest town gossip," he said with a smirk.

Maureen made a face. "To be honest, none of that sounds really appea –" She broke off, staring at his screen-saver. Collins glanced at her, alarmed. It was unusual for Maureen to be quiet for such a long period of time.

"Mo? You okay?" he asked nervously.

"OHMIGOD!" she squealed, running over to his desk. "I know that guy! Its that guy, the guy with the funny voice …. what's his name … Steve Something?"

"Stephen Hawkings?" Collins offered.

"Yeah!" Maureen smiled triumphantly. She poked his picture on Collins' screen. "Y'know … I always thought it would be sorta cool to have one of those voice things …"

"Oh yeah … vocordors are all the rage nowadays … didn't you know?"

She spared him another withering look. "Shut up. They just make your voice sound cool and stuff … a fabulous tool for an actress."

"You don't like your own voice?" Collins asked, incredulous. He could see the headline now: _Contrary to popular belief, Maureen Johnson does not like the sound of her own voice! Could her constant talking be instead a symptom of an undiagnosed mental disease? More updates to follow._

However, Maureen laughed. "No, silly! I wouldn't use it all the time … just when I wanted to say something cool!"

"Like what?" He was along for the ride now, the only audience member in The Show That is Maureen.

"Like …" she struggled for a few moments. Then, her face brightened. "Well, we were learning these Native American tribal chants in Social Studies the other day! That would sound cool!"

"You were paying attention in _class_? _You_? _Maureen Johnson_?" He leaped up, grinning manically, and threw open his window, shouting for the entire world to hear. "Hey! Stop the presses! Maureen Johnson was paying attention in class! You can bump your story on the Tomatoes Contest to page three! I tell you, this is – OW!" He rubbed his arm where the eraser had hit him. "Jeez, Mo, relax!"

"If you must know, Johnny Fischer was passing me a note, and it landed on the spot in the textbook about the chants. It looked cool, so I read it," she snapped. Collins held up his hands in defense.

"Okay … if you say so," he muttered, returning to his chair. Maureen pressed on.

"But seriously! Wouldn't that sound cool?" She lowered her voice to a low buzz. "We are grateful, O Mother Earth, for the mountains and streams where the deer, by command of your breath of life, shall wander. Wishing for you the fullness of life, we shall go forth prayerfully upon the trails of our Earth Mother." She paused for a second. "That would sound even cooler backwards! Mother Earth our of trails the upon prayerfully forth –" She broke off, giggling.

Collins laughed. It did sound pretty cool, he had to admit. "Bravo!" he applauded.

Maureen gave an over-dramatic bow. "Thank you, thank you, good people! I'll be here 'till next Tuesday!"

"But Mo," Collins said innocently, "won't you have to incorporate your cello into that?"

Maureen whirled around, glaring. The cello was a touchy subject with her. Her parents were forcing her to take it as "credentials for collage" (little did they know that Collins and Maureen planned on splitting for New York City as soon as school was over). She had fought them every step of the way, snapping her bow hairs, burning her music, pulling outrageous antics that made tutor after tutor quit.

"I told you, the agreed-upon statement was that I never studied it, and never will study it!" she growled through gritted teeth.

Collins chuckled. "Okay then … I guess the billing would have to be 'Maureen Johnson, performing Native American tribal chants backwards, through her vocordor, while accompanying herself on the cello. Which," he added hastily as Maureen started toward him, murder in her eye, "she ain't never studied."

Maureen paused, cocked her head, and finally laughed. "That sounds awesome!" she snorted.

"You should make it electric cello," Collins offered. "It sounds more 'indie'."

"Okay. So." Maureen centered herself in the room. "Maureen Johnson, performing Native American tribal chants backwards through her vocordor while accompanying herself on the electric cello – which she ain't ever studied," she rattled off, winking as she added Collins' accent. Then, with grim seriousness, Maureen bent her legs and began chanting backwards in the deep monotone, occasionally adding squeaks though the side of her mouth that were to represent her cello expertise.

Collins cracked up. It was hysterical.

Maureen beamed at him. She loved making people laugh – it made her feel important. Collins applauded as she curtsied and collapsed onto his bed. Sighing, he flopped down on the bed next to her. Out of habit, she snuggles into his wide chest. He ran his fingers through he dark hair. For a while, they were both content just to stay like that, just knowing they had each other.

---------------------------------------------------

Collins clambered onto the table at the Life Café. "In honor of the death of Bohemia, an impromptu salon will commence immediately following dinner... Maureen Johnson, just back from her spectacular one-night engagement at the eleventh street lot, will perform Native American tribal chants backwards through her vocodor, while accompanying herself on the electric cello." He paused, meeting her eyes. "Which," he added, a grin spreading across his face, "she ain't never studied."

Maureen beamed back at him. Through all the years, no matter what curveballs life threw at them, what would happen in the near future, they still had each other … and that was all that mattered.

**(A/N: Aww! I love writing Mo and Collins friendship .. they're just the best together. Next up: The Lawn Chair Handcuff Dance!) **


	2. Chapter 2

**(A/N: Dear readers, I apologize. First, I don't update for 525,600 years, and then I lie and say I'm posting the Lawn-chair Handcuff Dance next. No, this chapter will be all about Mark and his policy of "mucho masturbation" ..**

**I am so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so sorry this took so long.!!!!!! It won't happen again. I swear on Roger's pants! I've been really busy with all this shit in school, and the Lawn-chair Handcuff Dance really wasn't working for me. Fortunately, this idea came in a dream ..**

**I WARN YOU! THIS CHAPTER MAY BE CONSIDERED OFFENSIVE TO MANY! IT'S NOT GRAPHIC, BUT HAS SOME REFERENCES! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!**

**-ahem- Anyway, this will be Mark/Roger Friendship Fluff. Enjoy, please!)**

Chapter Two: The High Holy Days

Roger Davis groaned as he collapsed on the couch in his new home, an vandalized, sordid industrial loft on the corner of 11th Street Avenue B. Even though he had been living in it for barely a week, sheet music was strewn everywhere, like gold leafing on a plain piece of wood. It was late: he had just returned from a gig at CBGBs, and was looking forward to nice, cold, relaxing beer. He would have had it already, if it weren't for his roommate, Mark Cohen.

Roger let out in involuntary snort of annoyance at the thought of the man. Cohen was a twitchy, nervous guy, a Jewish filmmaker who detached from reality by hiding behind his camera. Something about him made Roger feel edgy and awkward, as if he was absorbing the dude's weirdo-rays or something. Cohen absolutely hated anything that would make him feel, like pot or alcohol – they were banned from the house, along with fans, band members, and random chicks he picked up at bars. Still, a home is a home, and Cohen allowed him to stay there, albeit grudgingly.

Stealthily, as not to awake his sleeping roommate, Roger crept into the kitchen and opened their fridge as quietly as he could. Hidden behind the molding cheese that neither one of them dared touch was a six-pack of Miller Lites. He sighed as his beverage of choice soothed his frazzled, post-concert nerves. _Ahh. Miller Lite – good call. _

Then, he heard it.

A low, tortured moan, breaking into a heavy gasp. **(A/N: Omg, omg, omg .. I can't believe I'm writing this.) **

Roger stopped chugging for a second and cocked his head, listening hard. It came again, this time more high pitched and with a breathy sigh. It was the sound of someone suffering, he was sure. A bubble of panic rising in his stomach, Roger's mind raced: _That's Cohen! What's wrong with him? Oh my god – maybe he's on drugs! And he's going through withdrawal! What do I do?_ The moan came again, this time loud enough to break the silence. Roger gave a start; on an impulse, he decided to go help Cohen out – after all, if he was going through the same thing, he'd want someone there for him, no matter how annoying. **(A/N: … He's just coming back from half a year of withdrawal! Ooo, foreshadowing!)**

The moans built in intensity as Roger rushed down the hall to Cohen's room. As a loud yelp sounded throughout the loft, he flung the door open, confident that he was prepared to face whatever horrors he was about the behold. Really, he had no idea …

Cohen was lying on his bed with the light on. One hand clutched at the bedpost, the knuckles white … the other was down his pants, grasping, working furiously, …

_Oh. My. Motherfucking. God. This cannot be happening. _

Roger eyes were as wide as saucers, his mouth agape. It was like a nightmare: he wanted to run as far away as possible, but was completely frozen in shock and revulsion. Horribly, Cohen was still going at it, not noticing the unwilling spectator in his midst.

"Maureen," he whimpered, arching his back into the pillows, the bed squeaking. For a spit second, he opened his eyes – and saw Roger.

With a loud shriek of genuine fear, Cohen grabbed the sheets and pulled them up. He toppled off the bed, landing on his little cat, Kurosawa, who began to howl. Roger stammered over the racket:

"Sorry … excuse me … oops … I – I think I'll just go –"

"Like hell!" Cohen screeched. With that, Roger slammed the door shut and sprinted all the way across the loft to his room, hoping to God that he would die of a sudden heart attack in his sleep.

RENTRENTRENTRENTRENTRENT

Early the next morning, a heavily disappointed Roger Davis sat at the kitchen table, trying to drink coffee and concentrate on the newest issue of_ The Village Voice_. Images from the night before kept popping into his mind, blocking the paper from view. He was still in a state of shock, of course, but now some heavy-duty mortification was setting in. He couldn't imagine how awkward things were going to be around the loft: his frosty, uptight roommate getting caught in an act of excess.

_Nice, Roger_, he though bitterly. _Why didn't you fucking recognize the noises? You hear them enough._ Frustrated, Roger looked down at the paper and forced himself to read the headline:

'_Modern-Day Dick Tracy Caught With His Pants Down' – fuck, this isn't helping!_

Roger flung the paper as far as possible across the room, squeezing his eyes shut and shuddering. He was officially emotionally scarred, and was going to need therapy for the rest of his life to try and get over it. Really, he didn't need these images. Maybe, if he were gay, but even then – who would want to see some albino Jew-boy skinny little –

"Morning."

Roger jumped, almost spilling the coffee. Cohen stood in the doorway, his face more red than usual, but otherwise looking the same as usual.

"Morning," Roger grunted hoarsely, staring avidly at the paper.

"Did you sleep well?" Cohen asked conversationally, reaching for the coffee.

_As well as can be expected after you catch your roommate spanking off_, said his mind. "Fine," said his mouth.

"That's good." Roger watched as Cohen poured himself coffee. _Was that the same hand he was using last night? He better have washed it! _

There was a billowing, tremendous, awful silence, magnified by the sounds of Cohen slurping his coffee. Finally, Roger cleared his throat: something had to be done.

"Listen, Mark, about last night –"

"Forget it." Cohen's voice was icy cold. Roger grimaced, but tried again.

"I'm really sorr –"

"It's fine," Cohen cut in, staring intensely at Roger's coat pocket. "Just – knock next time, okay?" Roger grunted something that sounded vaguely like "okay."

There was another long silence. Roger groaned internally. How much longer would they be on these awkward terms? Anything was better than this torture. He cleared his throat again and began to rise from the table.

"Well, I should get go –"

"It wasn't working, anyway."

Roger froze. He turned slowly to see Cohen turning an interesting shade of puce, squinting at the tabletop and playing with his hands in his lap.

_Oh my god. No way. No fucking way did he just say that._

"What?" Roger choked out in sheer and utter disbelief.

"It wasn't … working. You know … it wouldn't … stay up," he mumbled, positively twitching with embarrassment. Roger gaped at him for a full ten seconds. Cohen continued to twist his hands together, looking anywhere but at Roger.

Roger burst into hysterical laughter.

Cohen looked up, alarmed, as Roger collapsed onto the floor, wheezing. It wasn't as if the fact that Cohen couldn't hold his stiffies was particularly funny: the strain of the situation had caused him to crack. To Roger, the whole thing was suddenly the most god damn hilarious thing in the world. Of course, the fact that this dorky filmmaker was suddenly spewing about the functions of his dick was pretty hilarious too.

So Roger was shocked to hear a weak chuckle join his own booming ones. He opened his eyes to see Cohen giggling madly, his head in one of his hands, his glasses in the other. For ten straight minutes, all the pair did was roar with laughter, ignoring the tension in the room.

"Oh my god … oh my god," Roger gasped when he was able to speak, wiping his eyes.

"Oy gevelt," Cohen panted, putting his glasses back on.

The two boys just stared at each other for a few seconds. Bright blue met clear green. Then:

"Why the fuck did you_ tell_ me that?"

Cohen sighed. "Honestly? It was the only thing I could think of saying. Really." He grinned, abashed. "This had got to be the most awkward situation … ever."

Roger snorted. "No kidding." A more comfortable silence followed. A dam had burst; Cohen seemed much more approachable now that he had got his giggles out. Roger decided to test the waters by voicing his thoughts for once.

"So, you can't keep it up, huh?"

Cohen rolled his eyes. "I had a feeling this would come up." He drained the remains of his coffee with the air of one preparing to do battle. "Yeah… I've been sorta out of it lately, to tell the truth …"

"Anything to do with Maureen?" Roger blurted out.

"Well, I – _what?_" Cohen's eyes widened behind his glasses. "How do you know about her?"

Roger threw caution to the winds and smirked. "Maureen … oh Maureen," he whimpered, throwing his head back with a devilish grin. Cohen smacked him upside on the head.

"Ow! Jeez, sorry, sorry …"

"You're an idiot, you know that?" But Cohen rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and Roger knew all was forgiven. Roger glanced sideways at him: it was fun to harass this guy.

"So, any particular reason you've been having issues getting it up?" he asked, his face a mask of innocence.

Instead of blushing, as was expected, Cohen snorted. "Not unless the passage of Rosh Hashanah can somehow limit a guy."

This threw Roger off. "Rosh Ha – what?"

"Rosh Hashanah. Jewish New Year. It was 3 days ago. Today is a high holy day – one of the days in period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur." Cohen seemed to think he had said too much, and promptly shut his mouth, lightly blushing.

"The high holy days, huh?" Roger mused. "Mark Cohen, and his inability to hold an erection on high holy days! You're more interesting than I thought …"

Cohen laughed dryly. "That sounds like the name of a documentary." Roger cocked his head, a giant grin spreading across his face. He sprung to his feet, adopting the air of an announcer.

"Next up: Mark Cohen will preview his new documentary on his inability to hold an erection on high holy days!"

Cohen applauded him sarcastically, one eyebrow raised. Roger blinked. When this guy didn't have a stick up his ass, he was actually … _funny?_

Now Roger actually felt bad. No one wants to get caught in the act, and this guy didn't deserve it, not really – he was pretty cool. Roger sat back down and put a hand on his arm.

"Hey, man, I really am sorry 'bout that. I really should have knoc –" Cohen waved his apology away.

"Forget about it. Seriously. Forget about it." His eyes were wide, serious, even though his tone was joking. Roger chuckled softly.

"I'll try," he assured him. "I've been sorta out of it too, lately."

Cohen coughed lightly. "Anything to do with, ah … April?"

"She's real – wait! Oh my god! You're kidding, right?" Roger felt all the blood drain from his face. No, no, no, no, no, no …

"Nope," Cohen smirked at him, leaning back in his chair. Roger gaped for a second, then went into bargain mode.

"Okay, if you never bring that up again, I'll never bring this up again. Deal?" He held out his hand, desperate. Cohen chuckled slightly, and shook it.

"Deal." Roger nodded, satisfied, as he got up to get his guitar.

"Well, I gotta run. See you tonight!" he called as he got his jacket.

"Wait – Roger?" Roger turned. Mark had stood up, looking anxious again.

"What?"

"Well, it's Friday, and a whole bunch of my friends and I always go down to the Life Café. You … wanna come with us?" he asked, somewhat shyly. "Maureen will be there," he added quickly, blushing again.

Roger stood there for a second, dumbfounded. Not by the invitation, but by his own judgment. How could he have been so wrong about this guy? Once he got out his pent up sexual frustration, he was the friggin' nicest guy in the world!

"Sure, man. Anything to meet the famous Maureen," he grinned, turning to go.

"Oh, and Roger?"

Roger looked over his shoulder at Cohen. No, Mark. He didn't seem like a Cohen anymore. With his striped scarf and camera, he looked like a creative guy, someone who would make his mark on the world.

"Yeah?"

"Next time, get Bud Lite instead. I can't stand Miller." Roger blinked.

"Okay," he said simply, and left the loft, the fragments of a grin still etched on his face.

RENTRENTRENTRENTRENTRENT

Roger smirked broadly as an idea occurred to him. He planted his feet firmly on the tabletop and recited:

"And Mark Cohen will preview his new documentary on his inability to hold an erection on high holy days," he crowed, poking at Mark. Mark batted him away, pretending to be miffed. Their eyes met, and both of them grinned quickly before Mark took over the announcing.

Sure, it seems weird to form a friendship started in the act of jerking off, but hey, normalcy was never really their style, was it?

_Fin_

**(A/N: I have never had more fun writing a fanfic in my entire lifetime. Oh my god, I was cracking up!! Roger always writes himself, and says things that I never would have thought of.**

**Oh, and btw .. longest one-shot ever.**

**Next: Probably the Lawn-Chair Handcuff Dance. Possibly the MIT equipment. We'll see!**

**Please review! I love feedback to death!!!) **


	3. A Note from the Author

A Note from the Author:

Okay, darlings, here's the deal. I've been really, really, really, unbelievably busy as of late, and probably will be for a while. And I'm SO SORRY to keep you all waiting, but it really can't be helped right now ..

Even though I will never abandon this story – its my BABY!! – updates will be really slow .. in case you hadn't noticed already.

Of course, I love you all for being so patient with a poor, frazzled writer .. bear with me, here, and thou shalt be rewarded!

Love, love, love, love, and love again!!!

-HAlf – BlOOd PRiiNCESS


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